Disclaimer: Percy Jackson and its characters solely belong to Rick Riordan.

This story can be found on Tumblr, and now, on AO3 as well as my other works.

"You said you would always stay by my side. Why would you lie?"

Amidst the relentless onslaught of conflicts amongst the gods and goddesses, and manipulations of unworldly and intangible forces to accomplish their inhumane biddings, Percy had forgotten the fact that he was but a part-mortal; that he was indisputably a human being. Humans were not patterned to possess unwavering hearts and minds, or the mere miniscule flaws which define them as humans. Humans are fragile in all aspects, and amidst indulging the gods and goddesses in their pathetic games, Percy had forgotten of his own fragility.

To some twisted extent, he had become the bastard that he had shunned so vehemently when he was offered the opportunity to join their ranks. To some twisted extent, he had become the bastard – those gods and goddesses who manipulated many for their selfish desires – which he always condemned since that day when they attempted to pry his mother from his life eternally. To some twisted extent, he had joined their ranks, and it was only when he had lost much of his humanity that he had been slapped back to reality.

How he wished that he had received it sooner.

Not when the sacrifices had been too much; too incomprehensible to decipher or to regain. Not when the sacrifices had been in the midst of a barren land of a crimson blood-painted soil; in the midst of haunting and distraught battle cries. Not when he had eternally lost immeasurable and significant fragments of his life – of the people that molded him to who he was today.

If the loss of Nico di Angelo's life was not the harshest slap to reality, then Percy did not know what else there was that he could possibly regret most upon losing.

Annabeth mattered, truly she did. She had been that sole figure in his life that he had deemed as the other half to complete his soul – his entire being – and losing her to the hands of death would utterly devastate him, but that form of regret held not a candle to the insurmountable regret Percy burdened himself with the death of the son of Hades.

Nico – son of Hades – had died, and it was as if The Fates were pulling a twisted joke on him once more when Hazel, with tear-streaked cheeks and heart-wrenching sobs, shakily confirmed what Percy had always tried not to acknowledge. Whereas most of the fallen had been delivered with proper burial and/or had their pieces salvaged, the corpse of Nico di Angelo simply resided within the domains of Tartarus in a state which none – not even the gods – could possibly identify. There was no guarantee if his soul had achieved Elysium, or remained trapped within Tartarus along with his supposed deformed and mangled corpse. It was a gut-wrenching fact, and it was the very thoughts that haunted Percy since the fulfilment of the Prophecy of the Seven.

The cabin which he had eventually deemed as his home now seemed like a foreign domain to him as he wrenched against once pristine white sheets, the vision of Nico di Angelo as he fell into the eternal abyss that was of Tartarus, burning itself onto his mind from behind closed eyelids. It was always the same image with every succeeding night – the same vision of a poorly concealed fear to die on those dark brown irises, and barely shed tears – that had him screaming silently onto his sheets as he desperately tugged and tore them in his grasp. Many assumed that his suffering was natural for one who had witnessed death and faced death on so many occasions; that his mind and body's reactions were nothing more of the lingering effects of war. But Percy knew better; better than what Hazel could ever come to comprehend or Annabeth could, with her intellectual-based perceptions.

Nico's death should not hurt so excruciatingly, and yet it did – and still does. For Nico had been his responsibility since Bianca di Angelo had entrusted her brother to him; had always been his responsibility, and not Annabeth. Yet, he chose to prioritize his own selfish desires over a broken soul, and that realization was like arsenic on his tongue. Nico had always been the one who watched over Percy as the latter indulged with his reckless antics. Nico, despite shrouding his intentions behind a cold mask, always had been the one who handled those that Percy did not spare a backward glance – himself included.

That might be why Percy did not realize how deeply Nico felt for him. Or perhaps, it was because he had not dared to look for he felt that he had what he wanted.

It stung to hear and to derive to that conclusion that Nico harbored such intense and pure emotions for a worthless individual such as him. Nico deserved better, always did in his entire life. Yet, he had chosen to devote all of him – to the extent of his own life – for Percy, and to his happiness to some extent when he chose to save Annabeth despite his state. It stung to hear, yet knowing that Nico was irrevocably devoted to him ignited mixed emotions in his heart. It imprinted a bittersweet feeling, both welcomed and loathed, and of numerous doubts that should have never come to existence.

Percy had known love, but nothing he could offer Annabeth or Annabeth to him could be comparable to that which Nico had indisputably laid bare for him. Percy had known love, but not with such intensity or devotion. It was one he wished he had come to acknowledge and comprehend at an earlier time; one which he wished he had come to experience and cherish before it had been too late to grasp.

It was not one which he could return wholeheartedly, but it was a selfless love, and it was picturesquely captivating and excruciatingly bittersweet at the same time.

Percy had to wonder when had those silvery eyes ever dulled in intensity to his sight. He had never been the best in deciphering the millions of thoughts that plagued the young woman's mind, but in that moment, Percy had not even a scintilla of any semblance of thought that was passing through that complex mind. Those silvery eyes that always appeared like twin stormy hues of varying intensity were now cold and hardened like steel. When had they lost warmth? When had they lost that spark of humanity?

"Percy, why?"

Annabeth's inquiry looped through his mind like a broken track, heaved with immense exhaustion. It prickled his heart; how the tone of her voice spoke in volumes of confirmations to doubts which manifested in him once more. What was she giving up on? Was it his reckless and impulsive nature, or was it him in general?

"Going to Tartarus is a suicide mission. Not even the gods dare to step into that horrendous domain. So why, Percy? Why?"

"I have to get Nico." Percy had to wonder how he managed even in the slightest to respond to such a painful inquiry; how he managed to breathe through confessing his manifested regrets. "It doesn't matter if he's… he's dead. I just have to get his body out of there. He deserves that much."

That was partially a lie. Percy would never do this just for anyone; not even if it had been any of the fallen, fellow campers whose features and names passed through his mind – barely distinguishable – in fleeting moments.

Annabeth took notice, her faintly chapped lips pressing to a firm and fine line.

"Nico had always been a complexity in your terms, Percy. I understand that you felt many inclinations or desired much that you could have been a better figure in his life. But Percy…'' Annabeth hesitated as those sea-green eyes hardened by a fraction under her cautious scrutiny. "I don't want to lose you, just as we have lost Nico."

Percy chuckled bitterly, voicing out a hollowness that seemed to seep from within his tormented soul.

"You never had me in the first place, Annabeth," Percy responded as he turned his back to her, gripping firmly onto the hilt of his blade, as if it were his lifeline. "Even I'm not aware of which of me is actually me at this point."

Percy did not dare to face the daughter of Athena, anticipating a devastated expression on her features, or perhaps a sliver of a tear or two which the prideful young woman would never permit herself to shed in the presence of others. Percy did not dare to face the daughter of Athena to wipe away the possible tear-streaks that cascaded down her tanned cheeks, considering the probability that it might waver his conviction.

"… Would you have done the same if it was Luke?"

That question had him loosening his grip on his weapon for a split second before he tightened his grip much firmer. The name that used to induce bitter and twisted emotions within him now only served as an unwelcomed reminder and implication to the daughter of Athena's statement. At that moment, Percy was certain that he was no better than Luke Castellan was in the eyes of the young woman. In Annabeth's eyes, Percy was just another disappointing figure whom she had allowed through her seemingly impenetrable walls; allowed to shatter her further from within. Percy was just another case of a broken promise.

It was true, and it was not true. Their love bloomed amidst the adversity, but was it enough at that point? Was it enough to matter much?

Was it enough if it had been Luke in my position?

"Who knows?" Percy breathed, allowing a small chuckle to slip past his lips, though they were devoid of humor. "I'm only sure of one thing now: I owe Nico so much more. His body doesn't deserve to rot in Tartarus."

It was a pathetic response, and it did not necessarily provided Annabeth with any form of reassurance. Any assurance – any form at all that something, something, still remained as a constant between the two of them. Any assurance that Percy was coming back to Camp Half-Blood; to her. But every second that Percy dared not to face her, every second of that suffocating silence which lingered, killed the daughter of Athena bit by bit from the inside.

"I love you, Percy. I truly do," Annabeth breathed out, hushed against a fleeting breeze, but it was audible for the son of Poseidon to register.

"I do too. I still do," Percy responded softly, but there was an edge to his voice which had Annabeth glancing towards the side. It had a ring of finality to it, a finality which Annabeth was not entirely too sure if she had the faintest desire to face. "And he loved me too. More than anyone else in the entire world, more than you could ever love me and I could ever love you… And I destroyed him more than the entire world could."

"Where does that leave us then, Percy?"

Where does that leave me? was an unspoken inquiry.

There was a reason why Annabeth vehemently refused to acknowledge the idea of Percy departing for Tartarus, and Percy certainly understood her concerns; her fears. Tartarus had damaged Nico di Angelo to an extent which was unimaginable in magnitude. Tartarus was a damned and horrendous domain where no being – god or mortal – desire to venture.

They were nothing but mere demigods, barely that legal age of adulthood, venturing onto the worst of the unknown. There was no security that Percy would be safe as he ventured onto such a suicidal journey.

There was no assurance, absolutely none, that Percy was going to make it back alive.

"I'll miss you," was all that Percy could manage.

I'll be fine, was too much of a lie. I'll be back, was just another uttered broken promises.

Annabeth barely hung by the seams. A false hope was far from what the young demigod utterly deserved.

"I'll be waiting." Annabeth had breathed, but Percy had already stepped forth, away from her reach; away from the possibility of questioning his conviction.

As much as Percy desired to inform her, to beg if he had to, that it was futile to wait for one who could hold no promises for her. It was futile to wait with bated breath and desperation for someone who could never make a guarantee of ever coming back. Asking her to move on without him was alike slitting their throats respectively.

At that point, it was not a question anymore of which course of action seemed rational. Taking Nico back home, even if it would come to the point that it would lead to his eternal demise, was the sole righteous thing that crossed his mind.

What are you doing, Percy? The latter could almost hear that cold, yet exasperated voice, breathing against the shell of his right ear. That voice seemed so worn out, burdened with years-long laments for an undesirable and damned existence. If Percy were to ever close his eyes, he could possibly pretend that there was a certain playful edge on that tone; as if there was a reflection of Nico di Angelo's past ten-year old self seeping through it in the form of humor and innocent curiosity.

"I'm taking you home, Nico," Percy murmured to himself, permitting himself to shakily breathe in the chilled air. "I'm going to take you back home from Tartarus, so you better be prepared to see me again."

In Percy's mind, he could envision the young Italian male shaking his head at the bold proclamation; the gesture further tousling already disheveled locks. In Percy's mind, he could envision that subtle quirk of thin and chapped lips before they curled to a small amused smile. In Percy's mind, he could envision staring directly onto dark brown irises – bordering towards black – which reflected sheer amusement and perhaps a hint of sadistic mischief.

These were all that Percy could remember with that fading image – that fading memory – of Nico di Angelo in his mind. And they would suffice for now; suffice adequately until he had managed to claim back what Tartarus had wrongly taken from his grasp; his life.

As stubborn as always. Come then, Percy Jackson.

The son of Poseidon allowed for a small natural smile to curl his lips, a hint of amusement and life crossing his dulling sea-green eyes for a split second. Tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, Percy determinedly walked forward without a backward glance, embarking on a journey which he might never come back alive from.

Wait for me, Nico di Angelo. I'll be coming for you.

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Finisce L'amore